


Oh Well, Oh Well

by forever_doodling_tardises



Category: Mayday Parade (Band), Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Guardian Angel!Marco, Jean Is Not Handling It Well, M/M, Marco is dead, Oh Well Oh Well - Mayday Parade, Songfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forever_doodling_tardises/pseuds/forever_doodling_tardises
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco wakes up and knows that he's dead.<br/>It's an awful feeling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Marco's Point of View

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, Marco and Jean survive the war, but then Marco's robbed and killed in an alley. He wakes up as a ghost and decides to stick around and look out for Jean.  
> As well as being based on Oh Well, Oh Well by Mayday Parade, which in my opinion is about a dead person to begin with, this work is partially inspired by this (for some reason other than its general greatness as art, I'm assuming): http://sydesu.deviantart.com/art/Shingeki-no-Kyojin-Jean-and-Marco-spoiler-378881693 and all the other guardian angel!Marco fanart and fanfic that's floating around out there.  
> TELL ME IF THERE ARE ERRORS (TENSE INCONSISTENCY, POV INCONSISTENCY, GRAMMAR, ETC.) SO THAT I CAN FIX THEM PLEEEEASE.

I wake up and know that I'm dead.  
It's an awful feeling.  
I feel like I'm breathing my soul out through my mouth, which might actually be what's happening. But the thing is, I've got both ends of the deal, so it feels as if I'm both spitting out my own essence and being regurgitated by a cold, lifeless form. It's the worst sensation I've ever experienced, and that's saying something. I've been through horrors - fought in a terrible war that might as well have just been referred to as World War III, seen my friends eaten by monstrous beings. But through all of it, he was at my side. Jean Kirschtein. Now, with my bloodied body lying in an alleyway, he's nowhere to be found. Just my luck.

I end up waiting for days. Having finished separating from my body, I sit next to myself, finding that sensations such as cobblestone texture don't really apply to whatever form I'm in now. Though I'm sitting in a congealed pool of my own blood, I might as well be floating on a cloud. At least there are a few perks to being dead.  
When Jean finally arrives, three days later, he looks awful - bags beneath his eyes, 3-day-old stubble, disheveled appearance. He sprints into the alley, hanging up on whoever he was on the phone with. He cries out, exclamation lost amid the many echoes and background noises - birds squawking, cars roaring past, his feet on stone. The rhythmic clicking of boots on cobblestones increases in speed as he draws nearer, tears brimming in his already red-rimmed eyes. I'm a little surprised - he almost never cries.  
Kneeling opposite me, he stares at my open, bloodstained mouth and my wide eyes, not knowing that I sit, not alive but at least well, not two feet from him. Two minutes more and the ambulance arrives. I nearly laugh - from this point on, it's all just standard procedure. Nothing here worth sticking around for. Except... I turn to where my fiancee - ex-fiancee, I remind myself; dead people don't get married - is shaking next to a paramedic, struggling to answer the simple questions she asks. I could stay with him, as a guardian angel of a sort, though I'm not sure how much help I'll be. After all, where else would I go? I look down at myself, realizing for the first time that I'm wearing my old uniform, complete with 3-dimensional maneuver gear and the crossed wings insignia. I activate the 3D gear, climbing to about ten feet above Jean and hovering, something I'd never quite gotten the hang of in the army. There. See? Perfect. Wings and all. "Wings and all," I repeat, half to myself and half to Jean, though I'm sure he can't hear me. 

\---

Two weeks later, I'm still trailing Jean, and he isn't even beginning to recover. He's at the ocean, or rather, on a cliff overlooking it. I'd be nervous, but I'm confident in my ability to catch him if he jumps - turns out all it takes to make stuff move when I touch it is concentration. He's hitching a ride with Annie Leonhardt, who fought alongside us in the war. Right now, he's standing at the edge of the cliff, holding a small bottle in his outstretched hand. I come closer, realizing what's in the bottle. It's our engagement ring, or rather, it's mine. His still glitters on his finger, a thick band bejeweled with a single, minuscule white diamond. I have - or rather, had - an identical one. Said identical ring is now in a tiny glass bottle, preparing to make its journey to the bottom of the ocean. Jean presses a kiss to the glass, then begins, apparently, talking to it. It's a short speech, consisting of the following:  
"I've had several people tell me, in the past few weeks, to hope for the best. But I'm not even sure what 'the best' is anymore. Other people say to be strong, which I guess is okay. I mean, I'm gonna need that strength. Do you need it, too, wherever you are? Oh, look at me, talking to a glass bottle. Have you seen me? I'm a wreck, Marco.  
"You can't hear me, can you? Well, in any case, I guess... goodbye."  
Then he gently throws the glass encasing, and with it the ring it shields, to the waves. He gets back in the car with Annie, preparing to leave. For a minute, I am indecisive. Then I make my choice. If he wants to bury this, that's his call. But this is mine, and I'm not letting this go.  
I jump off the cliff, waiting to engage my 3D maneuver gear until I've hit the water with not one sound, glided noiselessly through the depths to snatch the glittering vial from the ocean's watery clutches, tucked it into a pocket (that was a new trick), and started my ascent towards the surface. Then my gear kicks in on full, making it very easy to reach my goals. On the narrow dirt road, it isn't difficult to locate Annie's sleek black FJ Cruiser. She looks like she's having an extremely serious conversation with Jean, but then, she usually looks like she's having a very serious conversation with whatever she fixes her eyes on. As I draw closer, I can make out her terse cadence. "Nobody's doubting that you loved him, Jean."  
The reply comes: "I know that. Besides, it's not that I loved him. I love him. Present tense. Nothing will change that. Whenever I love, it will always be for him. Christ, whenever I think these days, it's almost always of him."  
"I'm fairly certain that's normal."  
"I thought... I don't know what I thought. I guess I thought I was living in a never-ending dream."  
"Everybody has to wake up, Jean." There's a soft edge to her last few words. 

\---

That night, he doesn't sleep.  
Neither do I, of course, but I don't need to - dead people perks. He, on the other hand, needs nothing more. Around 1:00 AM, I lean down next to his ear, by his bedside, and whisper, though I have no idea if he'll hear me: "I promise I'll be just as strong as I can be. Maybe you could get some sleep tonight."


	2. Jean's Point of View

Miraculously, I actually get a half-decent amount of sleep that night. In the twilight between dreams and reality, I thought I heard a voice whisper in my ear, and I swear it was Marco's. I wonder if I really am going mad. I hope not. It was probably just a dream.

Just like having reminders of Marco all over my apartment _probably_ isn't good for my mental health, but they're there anyway. Photos all over, his favorite CDs stacked up by the boombox, random articles of clothing from when he was trying to sneakily move in and failing magnificently, and the song. The song was the biggest one, just staring me in the face every time I passed the sofa. The guitar, the lyrics, and the half-finished sheet music for the song I had been writing about him were scattered across the couch, untouched since the day he went missing. His song seems to be twisting my insides with excruciating pain every time I pass the elements, disarrayed on the furniture, just begging for me to come finish them. There's even a pen lying there, last touched two weeks and four days ago. I doubt it'll be touched again until I sell the couch.

\---

Some days - well, most days really, I'd give anything to bring him back, or even just to talk to him. Hell, what I wouldn't give just to hear him yell at me for not taking out the trash in two months or scream along to a song, drowning out the song itself with what he claimed to be singing. He could have a great singing voice when he wanted to, though. He could have a great anything when he wanted to. Such are my musings as I drink my daily coffee and nuke two frozen waffles. Better than I've eaten in days.

\---

The following day, an acquaintance drops by bringing casserole (what is it with casserole and condolences?) and the same tired words of wisdom and sympathy as countless before her. I perform the usual routine: smile, say I'm doing better, pretend I'm letting go and don't feel his death as acutely as I do. It seems to work for her, but something tells me it won't be so simple for me. I think back to the times we were assigned to different squads for missions in the Survey Corps., our division of the army. Whenever that happened after we became boyfriends, we would always kiss, just in case we never got to again. Then I would say, "I guess I'll see you in Hell." Now I'm starting to wonder about all that - Heaven and Hell and Asphodel and Rebirth capital-S Somewhere and whatever else anyone believes in. If any of those things exist, where is Marco in there now? Is he in Heaven? Hell? I don't see any reason for him to be sent to Hell, unless sexual orientation really does play a part. But I don't believe that. I think it's bullshit, and Marco's probably floating around on a cloud right now.

\---

As afternoon becomes evening and evening becomes night, I crawl into bed, hoping for better sleep. It is debatable whether or not I get my wish. I fall asleep faster, true, but I also dream, and my dreams have been nothing but painful lately.

_A field of bluebells, and in the center of it, a figure clad in a green cloak. I walk towards him, but the bluebells push me back. When I finally reach him, his back still turned to me, a freckled hand extends from behind his cloak. I clasp it with my own, but the moment I do, it turns bloody and cold. The figure turns around, and it's Marco, but he's three days dead. His eyes are blank and empty and his face is spattered with his own blood. In the instant my brain registers this, he falls to the ground, limp and heavy as a stone. But I hold onto his hand, somehow believing that by this act, I can hold onto him. Maybe I'm wasting time and energy thinking this when I should be getting out of the now suspiciously shadowy bluebell field, but I don't care. I'll hold onto this cold, dead hand if it kills me - which it just might._

I wake with a start, cursing whatever part of the brain causes dreams.


End file.
